


Sleep Talk

by Aerine



Category: AI: The Somnium Files (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Game(s), Post-True Route, Sexual Content, how is there not a tag for identity crisis' everyone in this game fucking needs it, post-resolution route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerine/pseuds/Aerine
Summary: “C’mon, don’t tell me I have to get in your head to know what you’re thinking.”
Relationships: Date Kaname/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Sleep Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Break Me, Taste Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088965) by [inkcavity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkcavity/pseuds/inkcavity). 



> What can I say? I love Kaname Date

Oh, Date.

When your eyes first open, it’s as if you’re dreaming; before you lies a man whose skin is rough with reckless abandon and burdened with scars from events difficult to recall. His hair is fussed, laying atop his forehead, strands so enticing that your hand almost, _almost_ reaches to weave within them. Rays of a rising sun spread along his back and slither over his shoulder, evidence of him alight with the flicker of a new day. To whom your gratitude is deserved, they must like you especially, because your hand shrinks in his as his nose scrunches up at the same time his grip on you tightens. He snores, yes, but he is so very much alive. His little quips sexual in nature are one to roll your eyes over, but not for too long, not for _six minutes,_ because not a moment later those words can no longer be his.

Ah, but your dreams are never as calm; a glimpse into your consciousness and you’re no longer in control. The man bare beneath the thin polyester of the bed sheets is hot, in more ways than one, to the touch as the size of the mattress edges him close to your cowardice. The faint hue of crimson blankets his nose, his chest rising then falling in a stasis that tells of his medicinally induced dream— _Aiba, just how much do you like me?_ You have to remind yourself of this reality when you happen upon him in the dreams pieced together by the calamity of your thoughts, nonetheless recoiling when you feel a chill at the brush of his fingers against you, the cold shoulder for reasons you can’t figure. This is your reward for the obstacle course required to reach him, so is it out of line to claw at his side of the bed hoping to win your way back into his heart?

Date’s eyes blink at you. Before him, he wonders of his good fortune. “You know how I get when you stare at me like that.”

When he blinks, you imagine there is the snapshot of the sheets falling off of your bare form, eyes wandering along his complexion. You hope he finds it beautiful, breathtaking even, when your irises burn with the color of dawn. However, when you return the favor, there is a moment where raven tufts of hair are replaced with blonde hairs reaching his shoulders, a story nearing its climax as you remain ignorant to the fact that you will never see him again. Kaname Date continues to exist as the same name never promised to him, but he exists; perhaps, if you blinked once more, luck would not be as kind. His fingers intertwines with yours, collapsing into your grasp as he entertains how tight he can hold your hand before you’re inevitably released from his attempts to keep you beside him. Unlike the other times where he is forced from your embrace when the streetlights still flicker with their dying breaths, he wakes up and bears the misfortune of your wandering thoughts.

“Bad dream?” He guesses, resting his scalp against his palm. “Write it down.”

You shake your head, your smile weak.

“So, then, what’s on your—”

“Mizuki. Date, _where’s_ Mizuki?”

Date, with a sigh and a rub of his temple, answers with a, “Iris’ house, won’t be home until dinner.”

With a slow nod, Date is forced to accept that as your response, following the movement of your pupils as they wander to places that don’t require your attention. He can use his body to whisk you away from your worries, elicit sounds from you that perhaps aren’t so despondent, yet the morning dew doesn’t spring upon you energy or promise for a day that already discourages you. He feels as if he trapped you in his grasp, coarse hands piquing the curiosity of the hairs atop your skin; the lines of his palm brushes against you and all that is before him is a wall in need of getting behind. How unfortunate that this body wasn’t yours for the taking six years ago, when he was _Hayato_ and still a _dumbass_ , because now he remains as _Kaname_ and you loathe the difference. Clearly, because his first name can’t seem to roll off your taste buds despite it so effortless for yours to roll off of his.

The man props himself up against the headboard, dragging his tongue across his lips before pressing them against yours. “C’mon, don’t tell me I have to get in your head to know what you’re thinking.” He swoops down and seizes control of your lips once again, intaking every last bit of what exists before him in the haze that hangs over his thoughts. Pulling at your Cupid's bow, one hand is occupied with tangling itself in your hair while the other pats at the nightstand beside his side of the bed, relishing in the taste of you before finding the object of his affections. You gasp at his advances, nonetheless surrendering yourself to him before he allows the trail of saliva to be the only thing connecting you, a soft cover journal suddenly falling into your lap. “I’m not gonna poke fun at you for holding a diary. Aiba thinks it’s good for you too.”

“Aiba,” you murmur, “Tell him to kiss me again.”

With a gaze into his heterochromatic irises, they eventually fall to his left as it burns a bright, mesmerizing gold. The intelligence inside that eye has yet to pop from its socket, odd considering the night the two of you had, maybe saving her time for when you can bear her presence. Aiba continues to be Date’s savior the more she guides him with her quips of quick calculation or facts of knowledge, securing her spot as his partner in crime as she’s caught along the thread of existing and not. Although a goof herself, she drags him to reality and reminds him of his moments of levelheadedness, blunt about his feelings, about hers, and about yours when it comes to him. She plays along with his vapid humor, nonetheless choosing to be by his side no matter the cost; with that grants you little moments with her when she does decide to show herself, and vows to watch over him so your life is a little less stressful.

Throwing the cover over, his toes curl at the chill of the mahogany beneath his feet before weighed down by him reaching the peak of his height. His lips are curled into a smirk as you sneak a peek at his behind, bones creaking as he stretches his arms high above his head and allows the sun to press kisses all over his skin. So quickly the man had to get used to the changes, the loss of an inch haunts him with every shelf he continues to be able to reach, his skin no longer like porcelain. Although this body’s reaction time no longer increases tenfold when in the presence of a porno magazine, you sometimes would trace your digits free of wrinkles all over the lines that imperfected his back, and then, only then, would he feel himself again. Aiba, to his surprise, hasn’t awoken to remind that forty-two may attest to his moments of exhaustion or his mellow demeanor, instead leaving this hour of his time in support of love, or whatever this is.

You chew at your lip. “I dreamt about you again.”

“Ah. It’s slippery when wet, if you catch my drift.”

“No.” You smile. “You, uh— you weren’t you.”

His body is stiff, as it is too late to recant your words. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know.” He knows. “Sometimes I still think I’m dreaming.”

Date shakes his head, tells you, “Don’t be stupid,” before he allows the bed to sink under his weight just so he can kiss you. At first, his words mimic much of what his daughter would tell him, except he relies on his body to relay the message so he can perhaps prove himself; his calves are on either side of your thighs as he cages you in his gaze, lips traveling down the column of your neck, along your shoulder bones, nipping at the imprints he left the night before. Time passes before he takes you, throwing aside the past for the present he holds so dear to him, for the little moments he spends aware of your quirks and your insecurities. The warmth that travels all over his veins and turns his spark into a flame when in your presence drives him mad because to him you’re the epitome of _pleasure_ and he wants to soak up every drop of it. His forehead presses against yours, swallowing your cries as he moves into your heat once again, fully intending to intake that extra dose of oxytocin you might offer him.

The door rattles. “You guys _better_ not— Would it _kill_ you to answer my texts?”

“Oh, there’s Mizuki.”

There goes Date’s shot at paradise. “Guess that’s a no for dinner.” He falls beside you, no longer as close to you as desired, turning his head to meet your gaze. Just like you, he is following your being by the glint in your eyes, by the lips shining with the gloss of his spit. You are better than a dream, better than the sun that filters through the windowpane and reminds him that he is alive. “Later?”

You shake your head, biting at your lip before gracing your beloved with a cheeky grin. “Don’t be stupid.”


End file.
